Shannon and the Curse
by FantasyIslander65
Summary: The full story of Leslie's mother's fantasy and its aftermath. Posted by request; can be read as a prequel to 'Trial by Fire'.
1. Chapter 1

_This posting is in response to a request from Misheemom. Though part of it was posted as a preface to_ Ultimate Reckoning _under the MagicSwede1965 account, I decided it might be fun to post the whole thing in order to provide just a touch of extra backstory for Leslie, as well as some insight into her mother's thinking. Enjoy!

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§ § § -- April 1965 – Plainville, Connecticut

"This has to be the most harebrained scheme I've ever heard of," Michael Hamilton complained in exasperation. "Come on, Shannon, everybody knows that man's a fraud."

Michael's wife Shannon, eight and a half months pregnant, mirrored his exasperated expression. "Are you 'everybody', Michael?"

He threw his hands in the air. "I don't know what in hell makes you insist on taking this trip when you're in the last month of your damned pregnancy, and all so you can ask some glorified magician a few questions! Do you realize just how much of my hard-earned money you're about to blow on a certified quack? He's a swindler, Shannon! Just an over-celebrated scam artist with a well-oiled publicity machine!"

"And just how much do you know about him, anyway?" Shannon demanded. "All your opinions about him are exactly that, Michael—opinions, and uninformed ones at that. You're completely different from the man I used to know. Ever since I got pregnant, all of a sudden you've turned cold and hard. Tell me the truth. You never wanted this baby, did you? For heaven's sake, you've even objected to my visits to the doctor."

Michael looked guilty, just long enough that Shannon drew in a stunned breath of realization. "My God…you really _didn't_ want the baby."

Michael blew out a gusty sigh and half turned away from her. "We had everything going for us before you got pregnant, Shannon. Now we're going to be saddled with a kid that'll bog us down and prevent us from doing all the things we've dreamed of doing."

"Interesting that that should concern you now," Shannon observed, scowling, "when we didn't do any of those things before I found out I was pregnant. I keep telling you, you should come to Fantasy Island with me. Wasn't traveling one of those things we meant to do on a regular basis when we first got married?"

"This is different," Michael insisted.

"How?" demanded Shannon. "Just because I happen to have a fantasy I want Mr. Roarke to grant, you think this couldn't be a pleasure trip that you and I could share? From all I've ever heard about it, the place is a gorgeous tropical resort to rival Hawaii or even Tahiti. It may even surpass them. I just don't understand why you're so against this trip."

Michael turned back to face her and squinted at her. "Your mother suggested this trip, didn't she. It had to be her. You'd never have thought it up by yourself."

"So what if she did? You're avoiding the question. Why don't you want me to go to Fantasy Island?"

Once more Michael turned away from her, resting his right elbow in his left hand and rubbing his forehead with his right hand, wincing and squeezing his eyes shut, as though fighting the onset of a headache. "Why do you want to go?" he countered.

Shannon hesitated before replying. It was touchy territory between her and Michael, this business of the Hamilton curse. When they had first gotten married nearly ten years before, she and Michael had spent some time with his parents, Thomas and Dora Hamilton; and during a quiet conversation on the patio, Dora had asked whether Michael and Shannon planned on having children.

"Yes," Shannon had said, at the same moment Michael had uttered a vehement "No!" A stunned silence had fallen over all four of them then, and the newlyweds had stared at each other in surprise and disbelief.

"You never told me you didn't want kids," Shannon had said, hurt. She had dreamed all her life of having a large family, as she had grown up the only child of parents who had both also been only children. "I thought for sure we'd have a nice big brood, since neither of us has any brothers or sisters. It's lonely to have no siblings."

Thomas had glanced back and forth between them and remarked, "You two should have discussed this before you got married. I thought you liked kids, Michael."

"Not enough to have my own," Michael had retorted.

Dora sighed. "Michael Roscoe, if this has anything to do with that curse…" she had begun. Both Thomas and Michael had shot her angry glares.

"Dora—" Thomas began.

"Shannon is part of this family now, and she has every right to know about the curse," Dora had stated firmly. With that, she had turned to Shannon and told her the whole sad story of the curse and its effect on the Hamiltons. It seemed that every generation of the family had been killed in a fire, always leaving just one survivor to keep the family alive. Dora had done some research, but resources and information were limited and she knew only that the curse had afflicted every generation of the family that had left any written records. Stories circulated by more recent ancestors suggested that it went back as far as the colonial days, when the Hamiltons had first arrived from the British Isles; but there was nothing with which to substantiate this.

"I think the whole curse thing is a load of crap," Michael had said when his mother was finished. "Just because it seems to be a Hamilton tradition to die in a fire, that makes it a curse?" He looked so skeptical and spoke so loudly that Shannon suspected it was a case of the Shakespearean "he doth protest too much". But she hadn't said anything at the time; the whole idea had given her food for thought, and she'd wanted to chew on it for a while. For years she'd been torn between thinking there was no point in perpetuating the family and thus the curse, and wanting to defy the thing and have children anyway. In late summer of 1964, when Shannon had discovered she was pregnant, the whole issue had been rendered academic. It was then that she'd started wondering if there were some way to find out the truth of this whole crazy legend, and had mentioned it to her mother one day. Ingunna Hansson Reed had peered at her with interest. "That curse of your husband's, then?" she had inquired in the melodious accent of her native Sweden.

"I'm afraid so, Mamma," Shannon had said. "After what happened to Thomas and Dora…" She cut herself off, pushing the memory away. In 1960 the house where Michael had grown up had burned to the ground; Thomas and Dora, trapped inside, had both perished. Shannon had remembered the curse then, too; but at the time Michael had been stunned with grief and she hadn't had much opportunity to consider it. Now that she was pregnant, it was a different story.

Ingunna nodded, her blue eyes shaded with sadness. "Such a horrible thing. Yes, _min dotter,_ I understand your concern."

"But it's a curse," Shannon had protested, feeling foolish. "Curses aren't supposed to actually exist. They're imaginary, like ghosts and mermaids and the old Greek gods."

"Not so quickly, _min lilla,"_ Ingunna had said, raising a finger and smiling knowingly. "Don't dismiss them so. Oh, I know your late pappa raised you to believe that psychics and fortune tellers are false, and he was correct, because most of them are pretenders. But there is one who is not. One man alone on this earth can be trusted to know all about things that people today consider mythical and imaginary. And if this curse disturbs you so, then you must go to him and find out the truth." She had smiled at Shannon's perplexed stare. "His name is Mr. Roarke, and you can find him on his lovely Fantasy Island."

So after months of consideration and worry, Shannon had finally written a letter to Roarke, with her mother's help, explaining her concerns and requesting that he help her find some answers. In early April the reply had come accepting her request and enclosing a small green pass which, the letter explained, she was to hand to the ticket agent at the gate in the Honolulu airport where she would board the charter plane to Fantasy Island. She had been told to come on the weekend of April 24 and 25; her departure was now only a few days away, and ever since she had disclosed to Michael that she was going, he had been angry and argumentative, trying his worst to talk her out of the trip and then giving her the third degree when she stubbornly stuck to her decision to go.

"Shannon," Michael said, dangerously low. "Why are you going?"

She gave up. "If you really must know, it's the Hamilton curse."

Michael swore loudly and colorfully. "You actually believe in that?"

"Well, what am I supposed to think?" Shannon shouted, losing her patience with him at long last. She rarely raised her voice, so it was gratifying to her to see Michael taken aback at her sudden volume. "Your mother and father believed in that curse, and look at the way they died. Logically, you and I are going to be next, and this child might find itself the next lone survivor who has to face the damned thing and die the same way. I'm tired of all this. I want some answers, and since you have no intention of humoring me, I'm going to someone who'll take me seriously! Now does that answer your question, Michael Hamilton?" Without waiting for an answer, she shouldered past him and marched through their little ranch house to the bedroom they shared, intending to start packing.

But he followed her, silent and uncharacteristically meek. For a few minutes he stood in the doorway watching her pull a suitcase out from under the bed and lay it open atop the spread, then choose clothing for the trip and carefully fold it away inside the case. She made a production of ignoring him, until at last he heaved a great sigh and cleared his throat. "Uh…listen, did you get the doctor's okay to make this trip? It's a hell of a long way from Connecticut to the South Pacific, you know."

Shannon paused long enough to direct a cool gaze at him. "I have a note from the doctor, yes. He could see how much this bothered me and was afraid it would make me ill if I didn't address my concerns, so he cleared the way for me. Like it or not, I'm going to Fantasy Island, and I'm going to find out what this curse is all about."

Michael shrugged, and Shannon went back to her packing. Another five minutes slid by, and then she heard him grumble, "Fantasy Island. It even _sounds_ like a fraud."

§ § § -- April 24, 1965 – Fantasy Island

Shannon gazed in wonder out the window of the little pontoon plane as it lost altitude, orbiting what must be the lushest piece of land she had ever seen. Now and then she spotted little thatched-roof huts dotting the cliffs and beaches; children playing in the sand waved at the plane as it soared past. They rounded a sheer cliff over which dropped a magnificent waterfall; somewhat beyond that, she noted a few contemporary homes through gaps between the trees. Just before the plane lowered again, she caught the barest glimpse of a white bell tower before it got swallowed by all the dense vegetation.

A few minutes later there was a gentle thump and water sprayed across her window; she turned reluctantly away from the view to gather up her things and saw the pretty Asian stewardess hovering next to her seat. "Let me help you."

"Yes, thank you," Shannon said gratefully. She had to be assisted all the way to the disembarkation ramp, as her pregnancy had made her uncommonly ungainly in the last week or so. She suspected her baby's birth wasn't all that far away and hoped there was a good hospital on the island in case she went into labor.

The stewardess relinquished her to two strong young Polynesian boys who each took an arm and guided her down the ramp. In spite of their presence, the young girls standing in rows on either side of the wooden dock still managed to drop leis over her head, and she was well and truly bedecked when she paused near some forsythia bushes, in front of a perch occupied by a large, colorful parrot which eyed her with little interest. She accepted a glass of ginger ale and sipped at it, trying to take in everything at once.

Then Shannon heard low voices over the hula-style music and spotted two men garbed entirely in white but for their black ties. The one was a pleasant-looking sort, graying at the temples but handsome and quite distinguished-looking, while the other couldn't have exceeded four feet in height. The smaller man was noticeably younger than his companion, with a shock of thick black hair. _That must be Mr. Roarke,_ she realized, studying the taller man and thinking back over what her mother had said. If Ingunna was right, she would soon have answers to all her questions. Her mind drifted a little and she looked down at her swollen abdomen, laying a protective hand over the baby within.

"My dear guests!" exclaimed a voice suddenly, and she focused again on the tall graying man. "I am Mr. Roarke, your host. Welcome to Fantasy Island!' He raised his glass to her and to the young family who stood several yards away from her.

Shannon raised her own glass in response and found herself warming to Roarke's welcoming smile. The unsettled feeling that had been with her for so long actually seemed to recede for the first time, replaced by a hope that left her as lightheaded as if she had been imbibing champagne.


	2. Chapter 2

§ § § -- April 24, 1965

She had been driven to a bungalow in a hardy little jeep that was painted fire-engine red with a matching red-and-white-striped canopy; now, while she stood in the main room taking in the Danish-modern décor, a knock sounded on the door behind her. Shannon made her way to it and opened it to a little Asian girl, black-haired and bright-eyed, clad in a red sundress. "My name's Kayoko," the child said cheerfully. "Mr. Roarke sent me. He'd like to see you now."

Shannon smiled at her. "All right, thank you, Kayoko. Would you help me along the road? I'm afraid I'm very clumsy all of a sudden."

The girl smiled broadly. "Of course I will. My mother looks about the same size as you. Her baby's gonna come in June."

Shannon smiled. "I think mine's due any second." She laughed with Kayoko. "Actually, I'm due in two or three weeks. How old are you?"

"Twelve," said Kayoko. "I live right here on the island. It's the most wonderful place in the whole world."

"I can see why you think so," Shannon agreed as Kayoko guided her along the dirt road to her destination. The spring air was balmy, the breeze gentle; the sky was blue, dotted with cottony clouds; birds sang, chirped or squawked in deafening chorus; and brightly colored flowers bloomed everywhere you looked. There was no question this place was a paradise. It was easy to believe that, as Ingunna had solemnly assured Shannon, this island must be enchanted, right down to the very earth itself.

In the richly appointed office of a lovely white house built in the style of Dutch East Indies plantation houses from around the turn of the century, Roarke, owner, proprietor and chief magistrate of Fantasy Island, sat at his desk poring over the contents of a folder. Beside him stood his diminutive assistant, whose name was Tattoo, peering with unabashed curiosity over his shoulder. Tattoo was in his early twenties and had been working for Roarke for several years now; he felt comfortable enough with his enigmatic boss and best friend that he tried, and often got away with, just about everything.

"So who exactly is she, boss?" he inquired through a thick French accent. He spoke good English, but had never taken formal lessons; and sometimes people (though never Roarke) had to ask him to repeat something he had just said.

"Mrs. Shannon Hamilton, as I explained before," Roarke replied patiently in cultured tones laced with a pleasant Latin accent. "She is thirty-three years old and comes from Plainville, Connecticut, and is pregnant with her first child." Before he could continue, the door opened and admitted two figures, one of whom was the guest in question. Roarke immediately rose to his feet, and Tattoo stared openly as Shannon came awkwardly into the room.

Quickly, with surprising economy of movement, Roarke moved out from behind the desk and took Shannon's arm. "Thank you, Kayoko," he nodded at the girl, who beamed back at him before scurrying out the door. "Please, have a seat, Mrs. Hamilton," he added, helping her lower herself into a club chair even as the words left his mouth. She cast him a grateful glance.

"Thanks so much, Mr. Roarke," she said with a sigh. She gave him a slightly sheepish smile as he resumed his own chair behind the desk. "This is more attention than I've had my whole pregnancy up to now, and I'm afraid I'll be spoiled rotten before I leave here."

Roarke chuckled in genuine amusement. "I'm delighted to hear you're enjoying your stay here," he said, settling himself comfortably in his chair and then regarding her with a questioning expression. "In your letter you gave little detail. You said only that you had reason to believe there is a curse on your family that may affect your child after her birth, and you wanted to know what, if anything, could be done about it." Then he noticed the look on Shannon's face. "Is something wrong, Mrs. Hamilton?"

"You said 'her'," Shannon said with wonder. " 'After _her_ birth', you said."

"Oh, yes," Roarke said, as if voicing an afterthought, "you will have a daughter thirteen days from today." Shannon stared at him, even as Tattoo did a double-take. "I do need some background information on this curse you mentioned. You don't appear to be in any physical distress."

"No," said Shannon through a sigh, "my distress is entirely mental. First of all, the last two generations of both my husband's family and mine—that is to say, my husband and me, and all four of our parents—were only children. My husband, Michael, professes not to believe in the curse, but I've encountered too much that suggests it's real." She went on to tell Roarke what she remembered Dora Hamilton telling her about the family curse; her host and his assistant both listened avidly. "Since there have been so many deaths by fire and my baby will have only me, Michael and my mother…well, I decided it was time to find out if this curse could somehow be broken."

"_Sacre bleu,_ what a story," murmured Tattoo.

"Indeed," Roarke concurred, ruminating for a moment before returning his full attention to Shannon. "There are very few resources in existence with which to investigate the full story, but I do believe you're correct and that there is in fact a curse on your family." He paused for just a moment. "However, the only way I have of determining what lies ahead for your daughter is to show you…if you are willing."

Shannon's face took on a confused look. "You mean, let me see into the future?"

Roarke nodded and leaned forward over the desk, his hands folded in front of him. "Yes. If, as I said, you are willing, I will take you into your daughter's future in three separate sessions. I warn you now, what you see may be frightening. If you choose not to do this, it will be perfectly understandable."

Shannon stared unseeingly at the bookcase in the corner of the room. Now that she was actually confronted by the reality of what she had asked for, she felt more than a little intimidated. She had to admit to herself that she'd really only half believed he could do anything for her; now, his intensity and grave seriousness made her realize that she had underestimated him. Roarke was presenting her with much more than she could possibly have expected. But it was for her precious little girl; and if it meant peeking into a potentially dangerous future, then do it she would. Maybe she could use the information to figure out how to break the curse. She made her decision and looked Roarke straight in the eye. "No, Mr. Roarke. I've got to do this. It's for my baby."

Roarke sat back a little, and the hard intensity on his kindly features settled into a benign, if somewhat concerned, acceptance. "Very well, Mrs. Hamilton, you shall have your fantasy."

Shannon relaxed despite the fluttering in her stomach. "Thank you so much, Mr. Roarke," she whispered.

Roarke smiled pleasantly in acknowledgement. "Your first session will be this afternoon, and I would like for you to return here at two o'clock, if you would, please. In the meantime," and his smile broadened, "please do enjoy the attractions Fantasy Island has to offer. You need not exert yourself; we have a swimming pool where you might like to lie and read a book, or you can sit by a lagoon. And you need only call our hotel's catering service when you are ready for lunch. They will deliver the meal directly to your bungalow."

"That sounds very appealing," Shannon said with a grin. "Thank you again, Mr. Roarke, and I'll be back at two." She began to push herself up; Roarke swiftly arose again and assisted Shannon to her feet. She refused any further help and made her way out of the house with a determined look about her.

When the door had closed behind her, Tattoo turned to his boss with worry stamped all over his round face. "Boss, she looked ready to pop! You said she was due in a couple of weeks, didn't you?"

"Indeed I did, my friend," Roarke replied gravely, still gazing after the now-departed Shannon Hamilton. "She will give birth to her daughter on the sixth of May, and I am afraid that little girl may be in for a difficult childhood."

Tattoo squinted at Roarke. "How so?"

Roarke slowly settled back into the chair, his dark eyes losing focus. "I don't know yet, my friend," he murmured almost absently. "I don't know."

‡ ‡ ‡

Shannon's only visitor appeared after lunch; it was twelve-year-old Kayoko again, who this time had a toddler with her. "This is my little brother Hachiro," she explained, "but we just call him 'Toki'. It's short for our last name, Tokita. He'll be a year old pretty soon, and he can't really say his own name. And 'Toki' is all he can say of our last name, so that's what we call him."

Shannon chuckled. "He's adorable," she remarked, returning the small boy's solemn stare. "Do you have any other brothers or sisters?"

"I have an older brother, Saburo," Kayoko said. "He's fourteen. I hope our new baby will be a girl. I'd like to have a little sister."

"I hope you'll get your wish," Shannon said sincerely, and gave Kayoko a rueful look. "It's no fun being an only child."

Kayoko cocked her head at the intensity of Shannon's words, but asked no questions. One of the first things Mr. Roarke had drilled into her head was never, but _never,_ pry into the guest's affairs; never ask any questions. This rule always strained her curiosity to the breaking point, but you just didn't disobey Mr. Roarke. So she said only, "Well, I have to go now. Just call if you need anything." With that, she hefted her tiny brother onto one hip and promptly disappeared.

Shannon smiled faintly, slowly rubbing her distended abdomen without conscious realization, as if to soothe the baby. "I guess I'll just have to make sure somehow that you don't wind up being an only child too, Miss Leslie Susan Hamilton," she said, half to the baby and half to herself. "No matter how much your father rants and raves, one way or the other, you're going to have brothers and sisters."

At fifteen minutes to two, she hauled herself to her feet and began the arduous journey alone to the main house. For the first time she took a good look at it as she approached, and realized that the house actually had a bell tower built into it, complete with bell. _That must be the one I saw from the plane,_ she thought. _What an elegant house Mr. Roarke has. I wonder how much Mamma knows about Mr. Roarke himself?_

Shannon set aside this train of thought, knowing that if she let herself dwell on it, she'd be late for her appointment. Instead she concentrated on getting herself up the steps, across the spacious veranda and through the door. Roarke looked up when she entered the foyer and smiled in welcome. "Ah, Mrs. Hamilton. Right on schedule." He met her halfway as she waddled into the room and again helped her to sit in the club chair.

"What happens now?" Shannon asked.

"We begin your fantasy," Roarke said, taking the second chair and turning it to face her directly. He continued speaking while moving across the room to close the shutters at the tall windows. "To do this, we must have complete privacy, and you must be certain that you trust me implicitly. If not, you will learn nothing."

"I understand," murmured Shannon. For some reason it wasn't hard to trust this man at all; his manner made it easy.

Roarke settled into the chair that faced her. Leaning forward, he took one of her hands in each one of his and stared hard into her eyes. His gaze seemed to command hers, so that she found herself staring back into his eyes without consciously thinking about it. Rather than feeling uncomfortable, however, she simply felt wrapped in a cocoon, one that encouraged her to release all her worries and fears.

Then Roarke reached up and, just with his fingertips, touched the side of her head near her ear. Shannon's eyes slipped closed of their own volition. Some nameless, meaningless amount of time later, he released her and turned a little in the chair, gesturing towards the darkened foyer at his right and her left.

"Look there, Mrs. Hamilton," he said quietly.

Shannon eyed him in puzzlement for just a brief couple of seconds, then shifted in her own chair and saw the little tableau there, as if she were watching a three-dimensional movie. It showed a little girl standing in what Shannon recognized as their front yard in Connecticut, watching a pair of toddlers chasing a butterfly across the grass. The older child resembled Shannon herself to some degree, with big blue eyes and poker-straight blonde hair that glinted with traces of red highlighting in the sunshine. "Oh my goodness," she breathed.

Roarke said, "That's your Leslie, and the toddlers with her are her twin sisters."

Delight bloomed instantly within Shannon. "She's going to have sisters! That's wonderful! I can see she'll be good with them. Oh, Mr. Roarke, this is…" She lost the ability to speak and simply returned her attention to the scene playing itself out before them, her fingers interlaced across the baby inside her, her eyes wide and her face suffused with joy. If Mr. Roarke knew she was going to have more than one child, then there was no way Michael could change this, could he? "Maybe all three girls will be able to break this curse together," she said hopefully, unable to tear her eyes from what she saw.

Roarke studied her for a moment, frowning slightly. Something told him that there was more to it than that. The curse, he knew instinctively, was following some preordained path laid out for it many generations before Shannon was born; it would have to play itself out to its end. He sensed, too, that even he himself could not help Shannon directly.

But he didn't tell her this just yet. She was too caught up in her happiness over this first glimpse of the future, and Roarke wanted to let her bask in it as long as possible before he found it necessary to disillusion her. He had seen a deep-seated worry in the lady's eyes that indicated she had been plagued with this knowledge and these questions for far too long. If he could give her any kind of reassurance, he wanted to do so. He focused on her and smiled. _The lady plainly takes delight in her children,_ he thought; _she'll make an excellent mother._

…_But for how long?_ Roarke winced, ever so slightly, as the thought dropped into his mind of its own accord. A creeping premonition—at this stage little more than a vague sensation—trickled into the back of his mind, and he closed his eyes briefly, carefully shutting it away. This was not the time to voice his own worries.

Shannon let out a delighted laugh at something she saw the girls do, bringing Roarke out of his reverie. With an ease born of long experience dealing with people, he cleared his features of any telltale expression and merely watched Shannon and the scene of her children's future, smiling slightly.

Finally the tableau faded away, and she turned a radiant face to him. "What a beautiful thing to show me, Mr. Roarke. Thank you…thank you so much! Now that I know I'll have more than one child, I feel more optimistic about the curse being broken."

For the moment Roarke didn't reply, merely got up and opened the shutters at the windows again. Shannon squinted in the sunlight that streamed into the room and watched him, her joy slowly fading as she grew aware of his pensive mien. "Mr. Roarke?"

He seemed to hesitate before turning at last to face her. "I am terribly sorry to have to tell you this, Mrs. Hamilton, but I am afraid Leslie's sisters will have no bearing on hers or anyone else's ability to break the curse." He said it with honest regret, and fervently wished he could have told her something better when he saw the dismay and genuine fear that filled her eyes.

"What can I do now?" Shannon whispered hopelessly to herself.

Roarke approached her and laid a hand on her shoulder. "I shouldn't jump too quickly to conclusions if I were you," he suggested gently. "Remember, you have two more glimpses into Leslie's future. Don't lose hope."

Her expression changed. "You're right," she said softly. "Maybe there's still a chance to…" Something occurred to her then and she gave him a puzzled, faintly suspicious look. "You called my daughter by the name I chose for her. But I never told you what that name was going to be, did I?"

Roarke raised an eyebrow at her, as if in surprise. "Didn't you?" he asked, the picture of innocence.

Shannon eyed him oddly for a moment, then finally shrugged a little and mumbled, "I don't _think_ I did." She missed Roarke's small private smile of amusement.

Roarke extended a hand, giving her leverage with which to get back onto her feet. "Come back this evening at eight o'clock," he instructed. "We will have your second session then. In the meantime, I suggest you try to rest if you can."

"Gladly," agreed Shannon and slowly left the house, leaving behind one very thoughtful Roarke.


	3. Chapter 3

§ § § -- April 24, 1965

Still very much on her own, Shannon ate a light supper in her bungalow; she was lonely enough to give some serious thought to calling Michael, but wondered what he would say. It wasn't as if he could do anything now; he was some six thousand miles distant from her, and her fantasy was well and truly under way. Of course, he could always issue orders for her to come home, though he couldn't enforce them. She sighed and shifted on the sofa, trying in vain to find a more comfortable position.

All of a sudden the little old-fashioned gold-and-white telephone rang, startling her. She had to struggle out of her seat to pick it up and finally caught up the receiver on the fifth ring. To her surprise, the caller was none other than Michael himself.

"Well, speak of the devil," she remarked in amusement.

"What do you mean?" Michael could have been in the bungalow next door rather than Connecticut, so clear was the transmission. What else, she thought. Mr. Roarke was obviously a man who insisted on no less than the very best.

"I was just thinking about calling you," she told him.

Michael chuckled. "Yeah? So are you having a good time over there? What's it like?"

"I really wish you had come with me. This must be the most beautiful place on earth. It really is prettier than even Tahiti or Hawaii. And there's no one more generous with his hospitality than Mr. Roarke. He really is helping me, Michael."

"Come on, Shannon, give me a little credit for intelligence here. How in the world can he help you with something that doesn't even exist? I told you before and I'm telling you again: the man is a fraud. You should leave before he can charm you out of more cash."

"Will you please stop slandering the man, for heaven's sake!" Shannon burst out, her patience at an end. "He took me seriously in regard to the curse, and what's more, he knows that we're going to have a baby girl. He even told me when she'll be born—two weeks from yesterday, he said."

"Oh, hell," groaned Michael. "Now he's a doctor too?"

"I don't know what he is, but I know he isn't cruel. He's not the type to mislead anyone, I just know. All I know is that somehow he knows. Why, he even knew the name I chose for the baby, without my having told him. Maybe he's psychic or something, I have no idea. I just know that he can be trusted unconditionally."

"I still think he does it with smoke and mirrors," Michael said stubbornly, "but all right, you're there and I'm not, and I don't see any reason you'd lie to me. You never have before. So…" He paused for a moment. "You say he knows it's a girl and when it'll be born?"

"Yes," Shannon replied.

"Well, if he's actually right, that means the baby'll be born on…" There was a moment's silence while Michael calculated, then he went on: "…on May sixth. I guess we'll see if we really do get a girl that day. What name did you pick out?"

Uninterested as his tone was, Shannon was surprised that he had asked at all. "I decided on Leslie Susan. Is that all right with you?"

"Hey, I don't care," Michael said. "You're the one who wants this kid so badly." Shannon winced but held her tongue, weary of arguing. When several seconds ticked by with no response from her, he spoke again, sounding somewhat contrite. "Well, what time should I be at the airport to pick you up?"

They finished the conversation on a desultory note, and Shannon hung up with a mixture of relief and regret. She just didn't know what to make of Michael anymore; ever since the day she'd told him she was pregnant, he'd been growing gradually colder and more distant towards her. She knew of couples who endured permanent rifts over more trivial things than whether to have children, but that didn't make her feel any better.

She glanced at the clock, which read a quarter to eight. It was time to report to the main house for her second look at her child's future. With relief, she turned her thoughts to what lay ahead while she lumbered along the lane.

As soon as she entered the foyer and came down the two steps into the office, she told Roarke that her husband had called. "To be honest with you, he thinks you're a fraud," she admitted reluctantly.

To her surprise, Roarke chuckled. "Your husband is not the first, nor the only, person to assert such," he said, and with that dismissed the topic altogether. "So how is Leslie feeling this evening?" His dark eyes twinkled with humor.

Shannon grinned. "She was asleep or something till I started on my way here, and now I can feel her flailing around in there. I expect she's picked up on the anticipation." She caught herself in the act of sitting down and regarded him curiously. "Mr. Roarke, how do you know I'm going to have a girl?"

"Oh, it wasn't at all difficult to tell," Roarke replied smilingly and went to close the shutters again. Shannon smiled ruefully at her own folly. He had answered without really answering; what had she expected to hear? Carefully she lowered her bulk into the chair and waited while Roarke dimmed all the lights except for an exquisite lamp with a glass-paned shade which sat on his desk. When Roarke made contact with her head again, this time she saw a blurry montage of rushing images behind her closed eyelids, all so fleeting and some so odd that she couldn't grasp any of them long enough to examine them.

At last she felt Roarke's fingers leave her head, and he said quietly, "Now, Mrs. Hamilton. As before, look to your left."

She opened her eyes and turned eagerly to face this new scene. The first tableau, outdoors in the bright sunshine, had played out like a slightly blurry old home movie; what she saw now was sharper and clearer, and she sensed a sober attitude in the air. The blonde little girl with long hair was plainly identifiable as Leslie; the twin girls flanked her, round little faces much too solemn for such young children. The time seemed to be early evening, just past sunset; Shannon realized suddenly that the girls were standing in front of a large group of adults around a fresh grave that was just being filled in. "What…?" she began.

Roarke said, "Leslie is eight years old here, and the twins are six. What you are seeing is your mother's funeral." He hesitated, and Shannon turned her attention to him long enough to see the debate he was having with himself.

"Mr. Roarke, what _aren't_ you saying?" she pressed in a low voice.

Roarke regarded her with a touch of a frown, then finally acquiesced to her implied demand. "She was killed in a massive house fire at your home," he told her quietly. "You and your husband and daughters escaped unharmed, but she was bedridden and there was no time to rescue her."

Shocked, Shannon let her gaze wander back to the scene of the funeral. The twins stood staring at the grave; there were tears flowing freely down Leslie's cheeks, but she made no sound. Shannon wondered at that. Children were usually quite vocal when they cried. Was that just Leslie's way of expressing grief? Finally she said dully, "So the damned curse will get Mamma too, and she wasn't even a Hamilton."

Before Roarke could reply, they both saw the future Shannon lean down to mop at Leslie's face with a tissue. _"You've got to be strong for your sisters, Leslie,"_ she said. It was very peculiar for Shannon to hear her own voice like that; it reminded her of the time she had listened to herself on Michael's reel-to-reel tape recorder. She'd denied that it was her voice, but Michael had assured her that that was just what she sounded like to everyone else.

"_Why?"_ Leslie demanded. _"It's not fair that_ mormor _can't come to California with us. It's not even fair that we have to go there. Who's gonna leave_ mormor _flowers now?"_

Shannon saw Michael, standing nearby, turn sharply. _"We've been through all that already, Leslie, so stop your crying. It's time to look ahead, not behind."_

"_Why do I have to be strong and the twins don't?"_ Leslie persisted. Shannon shot Roarke a bewildered look: what an odd question for a child to ask!

"_I'll tell you someday soon,"_ Shannon saw herself promise the child, and then the scene disappeared without warning. The strange response to the strange question was just too much for Shannon, and she turned to Roarke. "What was that all about?"

Roarke closed his eyes, as if he had been dreading the question, and lowered his head for a long moment. "Perhaps the answer will come with the final session," he said.

But Shannon couldn't take any more mysterious evasion. "No, I need to know. I can't handle this. I won't sleep a wink tonight, Mr. Roarke, not with that whirling around in my head. Why would Leslie ask a question like that—and why would I give her that answer? I expected to hear myself tell her it was because the twins were younger. What is it I'm going to have to tell Leslie? I need answers, Mr. Roarke!"

Roarke straightened in his chair; his features took on a subtly shuttered expression that told Shannon she wouldn't get her answers tonight. "Calm yourself, Mrs. Hamilton, please," he said.

"But—" Shannon began, trying one last time.

Roarke studied her so penetratingly that she snapped her mouth shut and waited fearfully for his reply. After a long moment he spoke, clearly choosing his words with care. "I have only a suspicion, Mrs. Hamilton, nothing more than that. It's simply too soon to try to ascertain its meaning, or even what it has to do with your fantasy. Even I cannot force a revelation. The answers will present themselves only over time, and exasperating as I realize you find it, I am afraid I must ask you to have patience. I do not have any more information to give you at this moment." His tone indicated that the subject was closed, and Shannon didn't dare argue with him.

"What time should I be here tomorrow, then?" she asked a little timidly.

Roarke's expression instantly warmed, putting her more at ease. "I will send for you," he assured her. "Try as best you can to sleep tonight."

"No promises, Mr. Roarke," she said wryly, and he chuckled softly in sympathy. They bid each other good night, and she trudged out of the house and back toward her bungalow. She had just passed the fountain when a strange bird call floated out of the velvety-black night: three two-part rising notes, a pause, then two mournful laments, and in conclusion, a soft shuddering cry. It wasn't frightening, just unique. To Shannon, it carried a tone of heavy, sad regret, as though expressing grief over a loss. A shudder raced up her spine; she shook her head sharply to dispel it and continued on to her bungalow.

It took her over an hour to fall asleep, partly because of a violent crying jag set off by energetic movement from her unborn daughter. When she did at last drop off, she was plagued by nightmares, one of which was strong enough to bring her awake with a scream.

"Fire," she gasped. The whole dream had been full of images of fire, consuming everything in sight. Through it all she had heard the voice of a child calling plaintively for its mother. She threw back the covers and struggled out of bed; she, the sheets and her nightgown were damp with perspiration, and she was trembling from adrenaline withdrawal. _Is this part of my fantasy?_ she thought fretfully.

In the main house, Roarke awoke with a start. Very rarely was a dream strong enough to interrupt his sleep; it had been many years since the last such occasion. But there had been something particularly sinister about this dream: images of sheer destruction, raging inferno, roaring flames everywhere, a sense of incredible rage…and through it all, the bewilderment and anguish of a little girl.

She was in danger, he realized then, she and those she loved—and only the child would survive. It was one of the answers he needed, but he dreaded giving it to her.


	4. Chapter 4

§ § § -- April 25, 1965

Sunday morning dawned fresh and clear, but Shannon awoke nearly as tired and worried as she had been the previous evening. She changed her clothes and picked at the breakfast that Kayoko Tokita brought; her stomach felt as though she had eaten a boulder that had taken up permanent residence there. She was still trying to get the persistent memory of last night's fiery nightmare out of her mind when the phone rang, startling her badly. She lunged for it and blurted, "Hello?"

"Good morning, Mrs. Hamilton," said Tattoo's cheerful voice. "The boss says to come to the main house now, please."

"Yes, I'm on my way," Shannon replied immediately, barely waiting for Tattoo's acknowledgement before hanging up. It was time to get those answers she wanted.

Roarke waited silently behind his desk, eyes unfocused, in another world entirely. Tattoo, compiling a list of errands to run that day, gave him the occasional sidewise glance before finally capitulating to his growing unease. "Boss, are you feeling all right?"

Roarke came to with a blink, but continued to stare at some indeterminate spot. "Yes, my friend," he said absently. "I am merely considering the Hamilton fantasy. It has developed…certain complications."

"If you need any help…" Tattoo began hesitantly.

Roarke turned to him then and smiled. "Yes, as a matter of fact, I would appreciate it if you would remain here during Mrs. Hamilton's final session. If you would be so kind as to close the shutters and then wait here beside the desk?" Tattoo nodded and went about carrying out the request; he had just latched the shutters on the second window when Shannon Hamilton came into the office, arms wrapped firmly around her swollen midsection. He turned to study her in concern.

"You're not in labor, are you, Mrs. Hamilton?" Tattoo questioned.

Roarke frowned in his direction. "Tattoo," he said reprovingly.

"I'm only worried for the lady," Tattoo riposted, looking wounded.

"I'm already slightly overdue," Shannon put in. "Are you very sure, Mr. Roarke?"

"You will give birth on May sixth, and not before," Roarke said firmly, ostensibly speaking to Shannon but aiming his words at Tattoo. The young Frenchman shrugged affably and smiled a little.

"Okay, boss, if you say so," he said. "Everything's ready."

Roarke nodded. "Very good, my friend, thank you." He indicated Shannon's chair and sat down in tandem with her. "Are you ready?"

Shannon hesitated. "I had a dream last night, Mr. Roarke," she said without preamble. "A nightmare really. All I could see was fire everywhere, nothing but fire, and I heard a little girl crying out for her mother. It was the most horrible dream I've ever had."

Roarke's gaze sharpened. So she, too, had dreamed. There was no doubt left in his mind that it had to be some sort of crude premonition. "I suggest we begin your final session now, so that we can answer your questions once and for all," he said. "I suspect we will learn all we need to know with this glimpse into Leslie's future." So saying, he again placed his hands on Shannon's temples. The room seemed to darken of its own accord; Tattoo retreated behind Roarke's desk and watched silently.

About a full minute passed before Roarke released Shannon and directed her attention to the latest tableau. This time the setting was the yard surrounding a modest two-story house that had the vague look of a Swiss chateau about it, with scalloped edging along the sloping eaves and exterior window shutters containing heart-shaped cutouts. There was a small but sturdy shade tree some distance from the house. The time seemed to be early evening, and the front door was open. Leslie, noticeably older here than in the first two visions Roarke had shown Shannon, stood on the steps, apparently waiting for something.

"That's not our house," Shannon said.

"No, you will be living in California by then," Roarke explained. "Leslie is now thirteen years old."

Shannon saw herself appear at the open front door. _"Here's your bag, Leslie,"_ she said, handing a duffel bag through the door.

"_Did you get that photo album I wanted to show Cindy Lou?"_ Leslie asked.

"_Yes, I packed it in the bag,"_ Shannon replied_. "Have fun, and don't keep the Brookses up all night, okay? Hurry now, before your father gets home."_

"_Oh yeah,"_ Leslie said, looking vaguely alarmed. _"See you in the morning, Mom!"_ Both the present and the future Shannon watched the girl trot across the yard; the perspective followed Leslie as if via a movie camera. After a moment a pair of car headlights popped into view in the near distance, and Leslie dashed to the roadside and secreted herself within a stand of tall bushes.

"What on earth…?" Shannon muttered, completely perplexed.

"She is afraid of her father," Roarke said, almost in a whisper. Shannon spared him one glance of sheer confusion and returned her intense scrutiny to the scene playing out before them.

The car pulled into the driveway of the house, and Shannon watched Michael get out, carrying something bulky in one hand. From the way he toted it, it had some weight. He passed the car and strode up the driveway, disappearing up the far side of the house, and for a long moment there was silence. The scene seemed frozen in time; Roarke didn't speak, and Shannon was afraid to.

Then Leslie appeared at the edge of the yard, moving slowly toward the front door and scanning either side of the house. No sooner had she come abreast of the tree than they spied Michael coming around from the back of the house. Instantly Leslie swung herself into the lowermost branches of the tree and climbed up enough to vanish from sight, while Michael moved with strange sideways steps along the perimeter of the house, tilting the bulky object as he did so. From time to time he stopped and heaved the object up as if to throw it, but didn't let go. He would then lower it and continue moving.

"I don't understand this," Shannon said incredulously. Her own voice sounded too loud in the unnatural silence; unnoticed behind the desk, Tattoo gave a violent start at the sound. Roarke sat perfectly still.

"Wait, Mrs. Hamilton," he cautioned quietly.

The darkness had grown almost total now, so that they could no longer see anything clearly. The only sound was that of crickets chirping; there wasn't even a moon. A light went on in an upstairs window, painting a faint square of gold on the grass, and then there came the sound of a central air-conditioning unit switching itself on.

A fraction of a second later, the entire house exploded into flames. Tattoo actually jumped a couple of inches off the floor and grabbed the edge of the desk, his dark eyes huge with horror. Shannon screamed in instant hysteria; even Roarke reared back a little in the chair, momentarily stunned. The fire silhouetted everything in front of it, allowing them all to see the small figure drop out of the tree and land flat on the grass. Over the roaring of the fire, they could hear screams of terror and intolerable pain. The figure in the grass picked herself up and edged across the yard, as near the fire as she dared get, screaming in panic. _"Mom! Mommy, where are you?? Mom!!"_

"Oh God," Shannon shrieked and burst into tears, hiding her face in her hands. Roarke stared for another moment, long enough to see a human figure totally engulfed in flame raise its arms and then collapse to the ground, never to move again. He winced and unobtrusively swept a hand through the air in the direction of the tableau, which promptly vanished. The room reverted to normal daylight, and Roarke drew in a long breath to steady himself before reaching out to Shannon to try to give some comfort. He could see Tattoo standing frozen at the desk, round face a mask of shock, muttering to himself in French.

"Tattoo…" Roarke said quietly, catching his assistant's attention, and gestured at the windows. Still looking stunned, Tattoo automatically headed for the windows, and Roarke turned to a sobbing Shannon. "Please, Mrs. Hamilton, calm yourself. Please, so that we can discuss this."

Shannon lifted an agonized face to his and made a heroic effort to get her emotions under control. In spite of her near-hysteria, Roarke could see that along with the panic and horror in her eyes, there was resignation, almost a foreknowledge. When Shannon could speak again, she said flatly, "Michael and I and the twins will die in that fire, Mr. Roarke, won't we? It's the curse."

Roarke nodded, closing his eyes for a moment as he did so. "Yes, and Leslie will be the only survivor. That is the meaning of your dream last night, Mrs. Hamilton."

Shannon froze again with renewed shock. "Oh no…oh God…no…" She began to hyperventilate, and Roarke hastily settled her back into her chair and whipped the black handkerchief from the breast pocket of his white jacket. Holding it to her mouth, he urgently instructed her to breathe slowly and deeply.

By the time Tattoo had finished opening the shutters and had managed to regain his composure, Shannon had settled down enough for her brain to function again. "So the curse is going to get us too," she muttered, half to herself. "But there has to be a reason Leslie lives through that fire." She looked up at Roarke. "Since this is the future you showed me, and since she'll have no one left on earth after we're gone, I want you to promise that you'll bring her here to Fantasy Island after that fire and help her break the curse, and give her a home until she's grown."

Roarke stared at her in amazement, and Tattoo goggled. "Raise your daughter?" he blurted. "Is that what you're saying—you want the boss to take Leslie in?"

"My daughter will be completely alone in the world after that fire," Shannon said, her sense of urgency propelling her to her feet with a speed that belied her advanced pregnancy. "She won't have anyone to turn to. If you can't do anything to change this future, Mr. Roarke, then you can at least protect my daughter. Maybe you and Leslie will find a way to break that damned curse once and for all. But she can't do it alone, and you're the only one in the world who has the power and ability to help her. You're the last hope either she or I will have. Please, Mr. Roarke, I beg you!"

Roarke and Tattoo looked at each other for a long moment. It was true; she was right. There was no arguing her point. Roarke knew for a fact that, for whatever reason, Michael Hamilton had planned to send his family up in flames by throwing some sort of flammable accelerant—probably gasoline—on the house. When the air conditioner turned itself on, there must have been a spark that set off the fire, catching Michael in his own trap but miraculously sparing Leslie. This was the future he had shown the child's mother, and there was no changing it. Some force greater than he was at work, trying for whatever twisted reason to completely destroy this family. He could hardly refuse Shannon Hamilton in the face of what they had seen this weekend.

He sighed softly, then smiled a little and nodded. "Very well, Mrs. Hamilton, this will be the final fulfillment of your fantasy. I will give your daughter a home when the time comes. She will be in good hands—this I promise you."


	5. Chapter 5

§ § § -- April 26, 1965

A couple of native islanders had come around for her suitcase and overnight bag a little while ago, and now Shannon was just being dropped off at the plane dock, where Roarke reached for her hands and helped her step out of the little jeep. She faced them as it roared away behind her. "Maybe I didn't have any right to force you to make that promise," she began.

Roarke stopped her, to her amazement. "Mrs. Hamilton, please trouble yourself no further about it," he urged. "Your plea was born of a desperate situation and a desperate grab at hope. I am aware that your baby will be the last of her family, and under the circumstances, I could suggest no alternative." He smiled at her. "My only request is that you make the very most of your time with your daughter. I sense a great potential in her. But she can learn only what she is taught; and you will mold her entire character, for you have her in her formative years. The child who comes to me in the future will bear the imprint of your influence and your teachings. Make them the very best they can be."

Shannon felt the bite of tears at the backs of her eyes and managed a smile. "I will, Mr. Roarke, I promise you that." It was even more solemn a promise than he could imagine, she realized, for Michael had made it plain he had no interest in this child and certainly wouldn't have any in the twins she would bear a couple of years or so from now. It was entirely and solely up to her to see that Leslie brought happy memories with her when she came to this island one day. She had a big challenge before her, but she was more than willing, and beyond determined, to meet it.

"Good," Roarke said softly and smiled. "I wish you—and Leslie—a safe trip home."

"Thank you, Mr. Roarke," Shannon said, clasping his hands and squeezing. "For everything, and I do mean everything." She aimed a smile at the young Frenchman standing at Roarke's side. "And thank you too, Tattoo. If you're still working here when my daughter comes here, all I ask is that you be her friend, and I promise you she'll be yours too."

"You bet, Mrs. Hamilton," Tattoo said and smiled a little.

Shannon turned and picked her way across the clearing and up the wooden ramp to the hatch of the seaplane, pausing once to look over her shoulder and wave at her erstwhile hosts. She settled herself into a seat with the help of one of the stewardesses, and spent the entire flight to Honolulu debating with herself as to whether she should tell Leslie about this when the girl was old enough to understand.

By the time her plane was descending into New York City, she had made up her mind that there was no point in alarming Leslie. How did you tell your child that you were going to die someday and that she would have no family left? No, Leslie didn't need that kind of knowledge shadowing her entire childhood. Roarke had told her to make Leslie's formative years the best they could be, and in Shannon's mind, a premier ingredient of that was Leslie's happiness. Michael was going to be enough of a damper in their lives without giving Leslie the grim foreknowledge that Shannon had acquired that weekend. No, she would find other ways to safeguard her daughter and cement her intentions to send her to Fantasy Island.

To that end, she spent her alone time drafting her will. One of the first things she did when she got back home was to call her mother and let her know she'd arrived home safely. The following morning, when Michael went to work, Shannon drove to the apartment building where Ingunna lived and told her the full story of her trip to the island, without leaving out a single detail. Her mother was the only person who would know this; not even Leslie would be granted this privilege.

"Good for you, _min lilla,"_ Ingunna said, nodding decisively when Shannon had finished. "You're doing right; your pappa would be so proud of you. I know some people. I'll get you a lawyer; you write that will, and make sure my baby granddaughter's future is secure."

Shannon was only slightly surprised when she went into labor in the small hours of Thursday, May 6, and in mid-afternoon gave birth to the baby girl Roarke had predicted she would have. Michael wasn't there, hadn't even bothered leaving work early to be around for the birth; so Ingunna took his place, and was the first one other than Shannon herself to hold her new grandchild.

"Leslie Susan," Ingunna mused, gazing into the red and wrinkled face of the baby. "A good name, Shannon, a very good name. She looks like a Leslie." She grinned impishly, then sobered. "Now, I've found that lawyer for you. When you and Leslie get home, you call him and make an appointment for the earliest date you can. There's no time to waste."

Shannon took her mother's advice and met her again in downtown Plainville, with two-week-old Leslie in tow, so that Ingunna could watch the baby while she made her brief will official. It was almost two hours before she came out, and Ingunna stared curiously up at her; her daughter's face was filled with annoyance. "What's wrong, _min lilla?"_ she asked, rising with the stirring baby in her arms.

"I just wish Pappa's old friends had known a less irritating man," Shannon muttered, "that's all. He thought I was crazy because I based my will on what Mr. Roarke told me last month." She glanced at her mother; Ingunna even knew of her own death, to occur eight years hence, though Shannon hadn't told her about it without a very stern look and a quiet but insistent command from Ingunna. "Mamma, do you think I did the right thing? Do you think Mr. Roarke really knew…"

Ingunna's nod stopped her. "Yes, he really did," she assured Shannon. "I know."

"How?" Shannon asked, staring at her as they made their way out of the office and toward the elevator. "Have you actually been to Fantasy Island and met the man?"

Ingunna chuckled softly, adjusting a blanket over Leslie's head to protect the baby's tender newborn skin from the strong spring sun. "Let's just say I know of, and about, things that most people refuse to believe in any longer. I can tell you that I have a friend in a faraway land who is well-versed in them, and she knows what she speaks of. She did meet Mr. Roarke once, and she found him to be the extraordinary man you met—and a man of his word. So rest assured, _min lilla,_ you have done exactly the right thing."

Shannon still wondered how her mother knew; there was a good bit of Ingunna's history that she knew nothing about. She knew almost nothing about her mother's Swedish childhood in particular; what little she knew concerned a trip Ingunna had taken with her parents as a child, to a small, obscure European island nation called Lilla Jordsö, which had required Shannon to drag out a world atlas before she could get any idea of where it was. For the most part, where Shannon was concerned, Ingunna's history pretty much began with her immigration to Connecticut to marry Shannon's father, Jeremiah Reed, who had been almost sixteen years older than Ingunna. Jeremiah had died when Shannon was ten, and it sometimes seemed as if there had always been just her and her mother.

As time passed and Leslie got older, it began to seem that it was now just her, Ingunna and the baby. Michael barely tolerated Leslie's presence in the house and always complained whenever she cried; Shannon soon learned to ignore him and go off to tend her daughter without comment. Of course, she was Leslie's sole caretaker; Michael couldn't be bothered even to pay much attention to Leslie, let alone help Shannon feed, bathe and change her. And as for Leslie herself, even at this tender age she was no fool. At about ten weeks she smiled at Shannon, and a few days later for Ingunna; but she never smiled at Michael. Sometimes Shannon remembered the vision that had predicted they would have two more children and wondered cynically how that could possibly come to pass; but she rarely doubted that it would, one way or another.

She learned she was pregnant again in late October 1966, but she didn't tell Michael till she started to show in February. Naturally, he hit the roof, prompting Shannon to pack up Leslie and move into her mother's small apartment for three or four days. It was Michael who relented in the end; though he was very unhappy about being a father, he did love Shannon, and she knew that was the only reason he tolerated Leslie. _Heaven help us all if that love ever dies,_ she thought, and for just a moment wondered if that might be the very reason he would kill them all… She shook this off and tried to concentrate on the here and now; worrying about the future only gave her sleepless nights, which she certainly didn't need with a toddler in the house and a set of twins on their way.

Kristin Jane, to be called Kristy, and Kelly Janet Hamilton joined the family in June, and Leslie immediately became very protective of her baby sisters. Even when they outgrew their infant appeal and started to walk and get into their older sister's things, Leslie was remarkably patient with them. In the late summer of 1968, Shannon happened to glance out the window one afternoon and saw three-year-old Leslie standing in the yard like a little sentinel, keeping a sharp eye on the twins as they pursued a butterfly through the grass, and suddenly had a sharp recollection of the first vision she had seen in her fantasy. If she'd ever needed further proof that Roarke had been right, now she had it.

From that day on, Shannon had to work to keep from constantly dreading the fulfillment of the second vision. She recalled that Roarke had given Leslie's age as eight when that one took place, which meant that it would occur sometime in 1973. Ingunna was curiously serene about it, and Shannon marveled at that serenity, wondering how her mother could be so sanguine about having the knowledge of her own approaching death. She herself couldn't bear to even touch on the knowledge of her own; only knowing that Leslie would survive gave her the strength to keep going on her worst days.

Sure enough, late in July 1973, Roarke's second vision came to pass. Shannon, always a light sleeper, was awakened by the acrid odor of smoke, and shot bolt upright in the bed, instantly thinking of the girls and her mother, who now lived with them. She thwacked Michael on the arm without even thinking about it, waking him up, and leaped from the bed and down the hall to the bedroom Leslie and the twins were jammed into. Ingunna had become bedridden in the last six months, and she was going to need the girls' help to get her mother out of the house, so she woke them first.

Leslie stopped long enough to scoop up some favorite possessions before squeezing out of the room; Kristy and Kelly, who usually copied whatever their older sister did, began to grab odds and ends as well, prompting Shannon to reach in, seize a twin in each hand and drag the protesting six-year-olds out in Leslie's wake. "Drop your things in the yard," she shouted at Leslie, "as far away from the house as you can, and then come back in here so we can get your grandmother out!"

Michael came out behind them and pushed her. "Don't bother," he yelled over a sudden rushing roar from behind. "It's too late!"

"No!" Shannon screamed at him and turned back, only to find to her horror that he was right. In the few seconds it had taken her to herd the twins toward the front door, the whole bedroom wing of the house had somehow gone up in flames. Michael paused long enough in the kitchen to place a hasty call to the fire department, frantically waving his hand at Shannon to get the girls out.

"Mom, what about _mormor?"_ Leslie shrieked over the roaring fire.

"We can't go back in there," Shannon told her through tears. "We'd be burned alive." Much as she hated to admit it, she knew it was true. She had to force herself to turn away from the encroaching fire and push her daughters out the door. By now Kristy and Kelly had realized that their grandmother was still trapped and were struggling as hard as Leslie to go back to rescue her, and she had her hands full getting them out before the rest of the house went up.

That didn't happen; the fire department arrived in time to contain the fire to the bedroom wing of the house, though that end of the structure was gutted and everything therein was lost. The family was put up in a hotel for a couple of nights, courtesy of the Red Cross, and then squeezed into a vacant two-bedroom apartment downtown. Shannon bought air mattresses for them all to sleep on and prowled such discount stores as Woolworth's and Zayre's to replace the girls' clothing and pajamas as well as her own. Michael preferred to buy his own clothes and took care of that himself.

Ingunna's funeral was held on July 30, by which time Michael had made a decision. That morning he announced, "When we get the insurance money, we're moving. No point in sticking around here, things are pretty stagnant anyway. I hear the economy's pretty good out west, so that's where we're going."

This announcement was met with silence; the girls stared at him, and Shannon frowned, her mind still off-kilter from the events of the past several days. "Where out west?"

"I figure California," said Michael with a shrug. "It's as good a place as any. We can shake off old…old baggage."

"We don't have any baggage," Kelly said, taking him literally. "It burned in the fire."

Michael rolled his eyes. "That's not what I mean," he said impatiently. "And never mind, I don't want any questions out of you three brats. When they've got your grandmother in the ground, we're packing up what we've got left and going out to California. End of discussion." Shannon shook her head at Leslie when she would have said more. Knowing what she knew, she found herself wondering if Michael's hesitation about "old baggage" might have referred to "old curses"…

It wasn't till Leslie protested at the funeral that no one would be there to put flowers on Ingunna's grave that Shannon was jolted into remembrance of the second vision from her fantasy—and reminded anew of the third and final vision, which was supposed to take place in just five years. Just as in the vision, she found herself telling Leslie she had to be strong for the twins, and sure enough, Leslie wanted to know, "Why do I have to be strong and the twins don't?"

"I'll tell you someday," Shannon promised vaguely, knowing she wouldn't, knowing why, knowing what she hadn't known when she first saw this very scene back in 1965. She had no heart to tell her daughter that in a few years, she would be all that was left of the Hamilton family. She tried to go on as if everything were normal, but never again did she manage to banish the terrible knowledge of what was to come.


	6. Chapter 6

§ § § -- November 17, 1978 – Susanville, California

Leslie Hamilton was alone in the world.

She had been witness to the unbelievable conflagration that had taken the lives of her twin sisters, Kristy and Kelly, and her parents, and knew full well that her own father had meant to kill them all. She'd seen him from the tree where she'd been hiding, splashing something all over the house; thinking back, she realized it must have been something like kerosene or gas. The house would never have blown to bits like that if he hadn't helped it along with something. Only the fact that she had been on her way to a sleepover with her friend Cindy Lou Brooks had saved her, and she considered it poetic justice that her father had perished of his own folly. But that left her completely alone, with not one living relative anywhere on earth.

For the last two months she had been living with the Brooks family, sharing Cindy Lou's room, while the legal wheels ground at a pace that would have made a snail appear to be drag-racing. Leslie wasn't sure what to expect, sitting here in the Lassen County Courthouse waiting along with Cindy Lou's parents for the reading of the wills. She had been excused from school for the day and was now wearing a dress that Cindy Lou's older sister Melinda had outgrown, feeling like a reject.

She became aware that Arnold and Louise Brooks were watching her with concern. "Are you all right, Leslie? Do you want a Coke or anything?" Mrs. Brooks asked.

Leslie shook her head quickly. She had a bad case of dry mouth due to nervousness, but her stomach was so unsettled that she was afraid she might be sick. "What's taking them so long?" she asked, looking around the lobby for a clock.

"That's lawyers for you," Mr. Brooks said through a sigh. "They have a way of wasting everyone's time and getting paid through the nose for it."

Leslie sighed too, and the trio sank back into silence. Leslie's thoughts shifted to that horrible night when she'd lost just about everything she had ever known in her thirteen years on earth. All she had left to her name now, thanks to Michael Hamilton's apparent determination to destroy his family, were two sets of her own clothes, a nightgown and slippers, a hairbrush, the sneakers she'd worn that night, and a small photo album with family photos taken over the full span of Leslie's life thus far. She had been clutching the worn duffel that held most of these items as if she thought someone might steal it from her, and refused to let go even when the police appeared at the Brooks house the morning after the fire and brought her back to the Hamilton house, or more correctly, what little was left of it. All that remained was a skeleton consisting solely of blackened, still-smoking timbers. Michael's car still sat in the driveway, a little scorched in the front but otherwise untouched. The police had arrived concurrent with the fire department the previous evening and seen Leslie standing like a statue at the edge of the yard, staring at the raging fire in deep shock. No amount of questioning could get her to speak, and when the Brookses had arrived to pick her up, the authorities had allowed the family to take her after insisting on being given access to Leslie the next morning.

By then Leslie had recovered enough to tell Sgt. Bill MacGonagle and Officer Michele Calabrese everything she remembered having seen, including the way Michael had carefully circled the house pouring some kind of liquid from a can around its perimeter and frequently splashing the stuff up onto the exterior walls. All through her narrative she spoke in a flat monotone and stared straight ahead, eyes out of focus, as if watching her own memories. Calabrese had remarked on it when she thought Leslie was out of earshot. "That girl's gonna need some serious therapy in the near future," she said. "She's still in shock—did you see her eyes? No life in them at all."

"She'll have to learn to live with it," MacGonagle had said with a dismissive shrug. "Do you know what provisions the girl's parents made for her?"

Arnold Brooks had shaken his head, but Leslie had come to indignant life. "I do," she said, narrowing her eyes at the insensitive policeman. "My parents' important papers are all in a safe-deposit box at the bank downtown. My mother made sure I knew about that, in case something happened."

"Calm down, Leslie," Calabrese suggested gently. "We're here to help, you know. It's just going to take time."

_And how,_ Leslie thought glumly. The fire had happened in the first week of September; now it was mid-November and the lawyer from Connecticut had only just found time to come out to California with the original wills. There must be fifteen thousand cases on the judge's docket this morning, Leslie supposed, for such a little thing to take so long.

At just that moment the courtroom door swung open and Judge Karla Clinton emerged from within, followed by no fewer than four nattily attired attorneys. Arnold and Louise Brooks promptly stood up, and Leslie followed suit, her heart beginning to pound with fear. What if both her parents had wills but they decided to honor her father's? He had never wanted either her or the twins to be born; there was no telling what heartless fate he might have cooked up for his children in the event of his death before they came of age.

"Mr. and Mrs. Brooks and Miss Hamilton?" Judge Clinton asked, and they all nodded. The judge smiled slightly. "Down the hall; the reading will be in my chamber."

Everyone trailed Judge Clinton down the hallway, around a couple of corners and into a small office with just enough chairs to seat everyone. "Gentlemen?" the judge prompted, extending a hand in the direction of one lawyer whose monochrome attire was relieved only by a blinding-red tie.

This man stood up and nodded at the Brookses, sparing his late clients' only surviving child little more than a perfunctory glance before digging into his overloaded briefcase and extracting exactly one sheet of paper. Arnold and Louise Brooks looked at each other in disbelief; Judge Clinton raised one eyebrow; and one of the other lawyers snickered. A third attorney cleared his throat loudly, silencing his compatriot.

"This is the last will and testament of Shannon Hamilton," Henry Fields announced, setting down his briefcase and holding the paper up in front of him. "Executed on the twentieth day of May, nineteen sixty-five, in Plainville, Hartford County, Connecticut, and witnessed by me. No subsequent changes have been made to this document."

"Is that the only will?" Judge Clinton asked. "I assume the girl's father made one out."

"No, Michael Hamilton died intestate," Fields informed them, making the Brookses gasp in surprise. Leslie squinted at the judge in puzzlement, wondering if they would let her ask what _intestate_ meant.

Fortunately, she didn't have to. "How the hell could Hamilton have not left a will?" Brooks exclaimed. "A damn good thing Shannon did."

Fields glared at him, but Brooks simply glared back, and the judge cleared her throat. "Please proceed with the reading, Mr. Fields," Karla Clinton requested dryly, "so that you can get back to Connecticut with all due haste and not have to waste any more time determining the fate of a thirteen-year-old girl."

Fields turned red and drew himself erect, clearing his throat at enough length to make Leslie feel certain it would be sore later. Finally Fields read from the paper he held. " 'I, Shannon Carlotta Reed Hamilton, being of sound mind and disposing memory, do hereby make, publish and declare this instrument as and for my last will and testament, revoking any and all preceding documents made by me. Item one.' And only, I might add," Fields said in a tone that suggested he thought Shannon Hamilton might not have been in her right mind after all. " 'I direct that in the event of my untimely death, my daughter, Leslie Susan Hamilton, be remanded into the care and custody of Roarke, residence Fantasy Island, as soon as is possible following my decease. Sworn to and witnessed this twentieth day of May, nineteen sixty-five,' et cetera." Fields cleared his throat yet again and lowered the page, to be greeted by a stunned silence.

"Fantasy Island?" blurted the lawyer who had giggled earlier, and everyone looked at one another and then at Leslie. She squirmed in her chair and hung her head, unable to meet so many gazes all at once.

"I hope the aforementioned Roarke knows he's about to become the young lady's guardian," Judge Clinton remarked, still in that same dry tone. "Have you contacted him yet, Mr. Fields, or did you decide to wait till today's reading to find out what was actually in Mrs. Hamilton's will?"

By now Fields' face matched his tie. "As a matter of fact, your honor, I'm preparing to retire, and I've been busy trying to clear cases and divide the remainder among my younger partners. This actually is the first time I've seen the will since it was made out, and frankly, I had forgotten all about it. Now that I've seen it again, I remember how peculiar I thought it was at the time that Mrs. Hamilton refused to dispense with any part of her estate or provide for possible future children. She said, very cryptically I might add, that there was no point in doing so, because there wouldn't be any estate. I still don't understand it."

"Hm," murmured the judge, then focused on the girl. "Miss Hamilton, do you happen to know anything about this, by chance?"

Startled, Leslie looked abruptly up at Judge Clinton. "Well, your honor," she said hesitantly, "I didn't know that only my mother left a will or that she was going to send me to Fantasy Island, but I know she was right about what she told Mr. Fields. Our house burned down two months ago and both my parents and my twin sisters died in it. There's nothing left at all…just me." She caught herself. "Well, I mean, there's my dad's car, but if I'm going to Fantasy Island, I guess we ought to sell it so I can buy the plane ticket."

Smiles were suppressed on several faces; the judge, however, nodded seriously. "I see. Very well, then, Mr. Fields, I suggest that you contact Fantasy Island post-haste, so you can clear this case off your files before you retire to Florida." Her voice carried a faint hint of dry, almost disdainful amusement. Fields went crimson yet again but said nothing. "Mr. Welles, you are appointed to assist Mr. Fields in this matter so that it can be dispatched in a timely manner. Thank you all." She stood, and that was the cue for everyone to depart.

Leslie was silent all the way back to the Brookses' house. She had heard of Fantasy Island; who hadn't? She had a sudden memory of talking with her Swedish-born grandmother, whom she and Kristy and Kelly had always called _mormor_. When she was about seven or so, she remembered helping _mormor_ move into their house in Connecticut; she had gladly given up her own room to share with Kristy and Kelly so that _mormor_ could have a place of her own. In the course of helping Ingunna settle in, she had found a yellowing travel brochure touting Fantasy Island. _"Mormor,_ what's this?" she had asked.

"Oh yes…" Ingunna had smiled dreamily. "The most wonderful place in the whole world, _söta lilla._ It's magical."

Leslie, being small and hearing this from her beloved grandmother, believed her completely. "Real magic, _mormor_? Like fairies and unicorns and flying carpets?"

Ingunna nodded. "Exactly so. The flowers have special magic in them. Unicorns and mermaids can be seen there. Even the dirt is magical. Everyone wants to go to Fantasy Island, because that's where your dearest dream can come true. Mr. Roarke is the man who owns the island. The only thing he cannot do is bring people back to life…but he has amazing powers, and he is no ordinary man."

The conversation came back to Leslie almost as clearly as if it had been held last week, and she wondered uneasily what it was really like there. She didn't doubt her grandmother's words; but she had no idea what this Mr. Roarke was like. What if he didn't want her there? Maybe he didn't even know her mother meant to send her to him. Suppose that stupid lawyer wrote to him and he simply said no? Would she be put in a foster home in a strange place and never see anyone she knew again?

She had plenty of time to ruminate and grow increasingly anxious about her fate, because weeks passed by and there was no word. Leslie wondered if the attorney had even bothered to contact Mr. Roarke. Her Christmas was dismal, and she began to have nightmares. It seemed that no one wanted her after all.


	7. Chapter 7

§ § § -- February 2, 1979 – Fantasy Island

Roarke shuffled aside a pile of unanswered mail, looked through the bills and set them in a desktop file, and deftly filed away a couple of dozen letters that had already been answered. He was checking through a huge stack of brand-new fantasy requests when Tattoo came in with that day's mail, announcing, "Here's some more, boss."

Roarke barely glanced up. "Would you please go through that for me, my friend? I've fallen much too far behind, and I must get caught up." He continued working without pause even as he spoke.

"Okay, boss," Tattoo said agreeably, stopping for a moment to marvel at the speed with which Roarke worked. He'd worked for this man for some twenty years, and still seldom failed to be impressed by Roarke's abilities—but it would be ninety-five degrees in Antarctica before you'd get him to admit this anywhere but privately.

After a moment he settled into a chair and went through the some-two-dozen envelopes that had arrived a few minutes before. One of them looked as if it had been through the wringer; it was creased and bent, torn in a couple of places, and there was a rip through the return address. Tattoo studied it in curiosity; the postmark was almost three months old. He frowned when he noted this and set aside the other items in order to give this one priority. Obviously it had been lost in the mail, which actually wasn't especially unusual; but something told him this deserved attention first.

From the envelope he withdrew a single folded sheet of letterhead sent by an attorney with an address in Connecticut. Tattoo peered at the postmark again and scowled even more; it was from a place in California. Shaking his head, he turned his attention back to the letter, which was typewritten and dated November 18, 1978.

What he read made him blink. "Boss," he said in a stricken tone.

"Yes," murmured Roarke distantly.

"Boss, I think you'd better take a look at this," Tattoo persisted gently, displaying the letter at Roarke, who finally paused and looked up. "This one's pretty old—it must have gotten lost in the mail. It's from a lawyer in Connecticut, or California, or somewhere, I'm not sure which. Here, maybe you'd better read it."

His curiosity getting the better of him, Roarke took the letter and read it, smoothing out some of the wrinkles. After a few minutes he folded the letter once and opened a date book on the desk, making a notation therein. "Where did I leave the passes for the charter?" he murmured at Tattoo.

"Top drawer on your right," Tattoo told him. "It's locked."

Roarke opened a small filigreed gold box that sat beside the desk lamp, extracted a very old-fashioned brass key and inserted it into the lock of the drawer Tattoo had indicated, pulling it open. He took out a small green piece of paper a little larger than a ticket and gave it to Tattoo. "Send this with a reply to this attorney by return mail," he directed, "and make sure it goes out today. This matter has already been delayed too long." With that, he returned to what he had been doing.

"Right away, boss," Tattoo said, wondering just what was going on. It didn't bother him too much; he knew he would find out sooner or later.

Once Tattoo had departed the room, Roarke stopped working and slowly sat back in his chair, folding his hands over his waistcoat and thinking. It had been a very long time since he'd had reason to think of that fantasy, almost fourteen years ago now, and the baby whose desperate mother had entrusted him with her care. That child would be a teenager now, he realized, and smiled a faint, wry smile to himself. The last time he'd taken in a child had been some ten years before, when he'd given the fifteen-year-old daughter of some dear friends a place to complete her growing up after her parents' deaths. Raising Cindy had been a challenge despite the girl's studiousness and good nature. She'd been an adolescent, after all, and nothing about bringing up teenagers was easy.

Now he was about to become guardian to another teenage girl, and a much younger one at that. He knew nothing about Leslie Hamilton, but from what he recalled of her mother, he had reason to believe that she would be a good girl, raised as well as she could be by a woman whose husband was so hostile to his offspring. If Shannon Hamilton had instilled her surviving child with even half the capacity for love that she herself had unwittingly displayed to Roarke on that April weekend over a decade ago, then he and Leslie would be off to a good start. He could only hope that Leslie's experience with her father hadn't made her completely distrustful of all men, and that she would be able to work her way through her grief and fulfill the potential he had sensed in the unborn baby the day her mother had returned to Connecticut, fiercely ready to set in motion her plans to protect the child who would outlive her.

§ § § -- February 14, 1979 – Susanville, California

Leslie had grown used to returning home alone from school. Well, it wasn't really home; it was just to the Brookses' house. It could never be home, not after these last few disastrous months under their roof. Oh, Mr. and Mrs. Brooks were nice enough, and Melinda treated her pretty decently for a snooty teenager. But Cindy Lou had changed drastically since Leslie had been forced to share quarters with her. They'd never exactly been best friends, but whatever bond they did have had been thoroughly destroyed by their constant proximity. They'd learned within a week or so that they had less in common than they thought, and began drifting apart.

By now, she had learned to hold everything inside her and to keep her belongings close at hand at all times. She didn't have much, but there was no way in the world she was going to lose sight of what she did have; so she took her duffel to school with her, slept with it under the covers of the camp cot she slept on, even hung it on a hook on the bathroom door whenever she took a shower. Her two surviving sets of clothing and her nightgown were showing signs of wear, but she resisted all attempts by Mrs. Brooks to replace them. They were all she had left that belonged truly and exclusively to her. Eventually she'd compromised and started wearing some of Melinda's outgrown clothes to school, but that was as far as she was willing to go. She was too embarrassed to let Mrs. Brooks buy her new underwear or even the bra she had finally started to need this school year. Sometimes her classmates looked at her funny, but she ignored them and kept to herself, stoically waiting.

Waiting, just as she'd been waiting ever since her mother's will had been read in November. What was taking so long? She was convinced that stupid lawyer had put her out of his mind the second he'd walked out of the courthouse and had never written, much less sent, the letter that would get her out of this place. The Brookses were only her temporary caretakers, after all; they weren't equipped to take her on as a foster child till she turned eighteen, and even if they were, she wouldn't want to be here. Not after the way Cindy Lou had turned traitor on her and started running around with that group of fast kids she often saw outside the windows of her science classroom, lurking in the trees around the school property and smoking or drinking within plain view of anyone who happened to look. She skipped more classes than she attended and Leslie was sure she'd have to repeat eighth grade. Not that she cared; in fact she hoped that was just what happened. Cindy Lou was nothing like she used to be. At first, when Leslie had nightmares, she was concerned, asking if Leslie was okay and if she'd be able to get back to sleep. But after a couple or three of these instances, Cindy Lou had gotten impatient, then disgusted, and now just rolled over in bed, complaining about how Leslie was always waking her up with "those stupid dreams of yours." Leslie still had the nightmares, but somehow she'd managed to train herself not to wake up screaming or sobbing anymore.

She trudged into the house, clinging tightly to the fraying strap of her duffel, and made her way to Cindy Lou's room. It was weird, she spent more time in Cindy Lou's room now than Cindy Lou did, though she would far prefer to have slept in the Brookses' unfinished cellar. At least that way she might have just a tiny bit of privacy. But that wasn't an option, so she had resigned herself.

She peeled off the out-of-style jumpsuit that had once belonged to Melinda and pulled on one of her own sets of clothes from the duffel. Just as she finished, the kitchen telephone rang; she paid it no attention, pulling a textbook and spiral notebook out of the duffel and preparing to start her homework.

She'd completed only a few of the exercise questions when Mrs. Brooks appeared in the doorway. "Leslie, dear, I have good news for you," she said brightly. Leslie looked up in surprise and stared at her, and she nodded. "That lawyer, Douglas Welles, called."

Leslie tried to remember who Douglas Welles was. "Huh?"

Mrs. Brooks smiled. "The one who was helping your mother's lawyer, Henry Fields. He got a registered letter from Connecticut this morning, and he's going to drop by this evening to give it to you personally." She must have finally registered Leslie's confusion, for her smile became a grin. "Leslie, you're about to leave for Fantasy Island, finally."

She sat still for a moment, going hot and cold by rapid and dizzying turns, before she could grasp the idea that deliverance was at hand. "You mean Mr. Roarke got that lawyer's letter and wrote back?"

"That's right! Mr. Welles should be here before dinnertime tonight to give you the letter. Apparently there was something in it that you'll need for your trip to Fantasy Island. Make sure you have all the things you want to take with you…" Mrs. Brooks paused, then shook her head. "We wouldn't want Mr. Roarke to think we haven't been taking proper care of you, dear. I'm going to clean out Melinda's closet so you'll have a nice wardrobe to take along with you." She smiled at Leslie and left.

Leslie slammed the textbook and notebook, abandoning the homework; if she was leaving, there was no point in doing the assignment. It couldn't be possible—was she finally getting out of here? The thought brought her a nauseating mixture of relief and trepidation. She was glad to be leaving Susanville, leaving this street where she could still see the scorched remains of her house from Cindy Lou's window and be constantly reminded that she was an orphan; glad to be escaping the cloying attempts of Mrs. Brooks to console her and to foist Melinda's old clothes off on her; especially glad to be getting away from Cindy Lou, who was about the farthest thing from a friend she could imagine by now.

But she was scared. All she had to go on was _mormor_'s long-ago description, sketchy as it was, of Mr. Roarke and Fantasy Island. She knew only what Mr. Roarke could do; what she really wanted to know was what he was like, what sort of person he was. Would he be one of those gruff old bachelors who had no idea how to relate to a lonely, confused teenage girl? Would he be strict and stern and humorless? Would he live in the kind of house that was full of priceless antiques and fragile, expensive décor, where she'd have to tiptoe every time she crossed a room? She wished she had asked _mormor_ those questions way back when they'd come across that old brochure; she hadn't even asked why _mormor_ had it in the first place. Had she planned to visit the island sometime? Leslie sighed softly, trying to still the abdominal butterflies. She was going, that was all there was to it; she just wished she knew more about her destination.

Both Melinda and Cindy Lou had come home by the time Douglas Welles stopped over to drop off the letter he had received that day. He smiled kindly at Leslie as he gave her the envelope. "All yours, Miss Hamilton," he said. "Good luck. I hear Fantasy Island is an amazing place—I bet you'll love it there." He wished the Brookses a good evening and departed, and Leslie slowly turned over the envelope in her hands, dipping a thumb and finger inside and withdrawing a letter. A small green piece of paper fell out of the folds and landed on the floor, and she snatched it up, afraid Cindy Lou would somehow grab it. Cindy Lou had turned into a real bully lately.

"So you're really going to Fantasy Island," Melinda remarked, voice dripping with envy. "Lucky you. I sure wish I could go with you."

"It's about time you got out of our hair," muttered Cindy Lou, rolling her eyes. "Now you can be a burden on somebody else, and I can have my room back."

"Cynthia Louise, I think I've heard about enough of your smart mouth," Mr. Brooks warned her. "You've really been pushing your luck lately, young lady. Leslie didn't ask for her situation, and the least you could do is be generous about it."

But Leslie hardly heard anything else that went on around her. The letter she held was only a couple of brief paragraphs in length, and it wasn't even addressed to her; but all the same, it contained the magic words of deliverance. "…Thank you for notifying me in regard to the matter of Leslie Susan Hamilton. As requested, I am enclosing the pass she will require in order to enter our territory. In accordance with the wishes of her late mother, please see to it that she is sent on her way at the soonest possible date.…"

The pass was just a green piece of paper like an oversized ticket. All it said was, "Bearer is granted permission to enter the sovereign territory of Fantasy Island, by mandate of owner and island lord mayor." A machine-printed signature, reading only "Roarke", was under that. This was the ticket to the rest of her life, she realized, and looked up at Mr. and Mrs. Brooks. "Can I leave tomorrow?"

"Well, the letter said 'the soonest possible date'," Mr. Brooks observed; Welles had read it to them before handing it to Leslie. "Tomorrow would fit the bill, I guess. Louise, go ahead and take her to the airport in the morning. I'll handle the situation with the school and let them know what happened. Cindy Lou, you can take Leslie's textbooks back to her teachers."

"Fat chance," said Cindy Lou scornfully. "I'm not doing anything for her."

"You're a king-sized snothead," Melinda remarked, with the lofty superiority of the older sibling. "Like I said, Leslie, I wish I could go with you."

Scared as she was, Leslie was elated all the same. _I'm getting out, I'm getting out_, she couldn't stop thinking. Anything had to be better than this. She curled up on the cot in Cindy Lou's room and was settling down for the night when she realized her duffel, safely under the blankets, seemed to be stuffed much fuller than usual. It was all but impossible to wait till she heard Cindy Lou snuffling the way she did in her sleep before sitting up and rooting in the bag. Sure enough, it was packed full of clothes that had belonged to Melinda. _Oh no you don't! _ Working by the faint glow of the streetlight that filtered in between the closed slats of the Venetian blinds, she pulled out every single article of clothing, folded and stacked it carefully, and then stashed the whole kit under the cot, as far back as she could reach till she hit the wall. She sorted out her own belongings, checked twice to be sure she had all her meager possessions, and repacked her duffel, then shoved the bag under her pillow and finally fell asleep.

In the morning she was so nervous that she couldn't eat breakfast; she was afraid Mrs. Brooks would notice the lack of fullness of her bag, and wanted to get to the airport and on her way as fast as humanly possible. She did consent to drink a glass of orange juice, but her jittery stomach wouldn't allow any more than that. It was perverse fun to watch a glowering Cindy Lou board the bus for school and Melinda leaving to catch her own bus amidst envious good-luck wishes; and it was a relief to get on the road to Susanville's little regional airport. She would fly to San Francisco on a commuter plane, then board a jet to Honolulu, and finally catch the Fantasy Island charter plane.

"I just can't imagine what your mother must have been thinking," Mrs. Brooks said wonderingly on the drive to the airport. "Sending you to someone she had never met and didn't know at all. But I guess if she had to do that, she made a good choice. I understand Mr. Roarke is quite a man—Fantasy Island has a very good reputation. I can't blame Melinda for being envious. Are you looking forward to it, dear?"

_More than you know,_ thought Leslie, feeling trapped somehow. She was terrified of what lay ahead of her, but looking back wasn't even an option anymore, for she was scared yet worse of that. _Better the devil you know, they say,_ she reflected. _Well, not for me. This is what Mom wanted for me, and Mom would've never put me in a place where she knew I was in danger. So I gotta try to trust her judgment and just tell myself it's gonna be all right._

Within half an hour she was watching Mrs. Brooks, still standing beside her car waving goodbye, as the commuter plane gathered speed for takeoff. Determinedly Leslie clutched her duffel bag and turned her face away from the window, forward to where she could just see the cockpit and the pilot and co-pilot therein, at the very moment the little plane lifted its nose into the morning sky. Despite her nagging fears, she even managed to smile. _Okay, Mom, I'll do it for you. Fantasy Island, here I come…

* * *

_

_For those of you who haven't read any of my _Fantasy Island_ work under my MagicSwede1965 account, and might be interested, the story continues there in "Trial by Fire". For those who are familiar with Leslie and her subsequent adventures, I hope you enjoyed having some more of the backstory filled in! Thanks again to Misheemom for the idea!_


End file.
